Ingrid unzipped her handbag.
“Prada,” observed Tedeschi.
“It’s fake.”
Which wasn’t the case. Ingrid had acquired the bag free of charge during a visit to Courchevel. Her passport had been provided to her by the director of the Danish intelligence service. Tedeschi opened it to the first page.
“Rikke Jorgensen?”
“That’s me,” said Ingrid.
“Do you happen to remember your date of birth?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Humor me.”
Ingrid sighed and recited the birth date listed in the passport.
“Where were you born, Rikke Jorgensen?”
“A little town west of Copenhagen.”
“What’s it called, this town?”
“It’s quite unpronounceable.”
“Are you married?”
“Happily.”
“Children?”
“A boy and a girl. They’re five and three, in case you were wondering.”
“And what does Mr. Jorgensen do?”
“His last name is Nielsen, and he works on a drilling platform in the North Sea.”
“Fossil fuels are bad for the planet.”
“Rubbish.”
“You’re not worried about global warming?”
“I support it, if you must know. It’s very cold in Denmark.” Ingrid plucked the passport from Tedeschi’s grasp. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the home of our buyer. He lives not far from here in Antibes.”
“Lucky him.”
“You’ve been?”
“My husband and I went on holiday in Cannes recently.”
“It’s changed, Cannes. And not for the better.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” remarked Ingrid, and returned the passport to her handbag.
